If the author had said "Let us put on appropriate galoshes," there could, of course, have been no poem.
~Author Unknown.
Relief
Smooth and slowly it washed over me
Like soap over dirty skin, it scrubbed painlessly.
The anger peeled away from my body
And slithered, discarded, to the floor.
Air, sweet and fresh, tasting like ice water,
Cold and fresh, slipped down my throat.
Waves of newness washed out
The taste of dirt and blood.
The taste of fear.
With scents of cleanliness and revival
gusts of wind burst forth;
Winds that had trudged for
Years, pulling over ponds,
Careening through canyons,
Moving from malice.
My hands ached as they unclenched
And my fingers extended towards the ground.
An audible creak in my joints
And the floor boards
As I rock back on my heels.
I release my spine, guilelessly
Ridding my head
Of Pain.
An orb of energy seemed to rise from my chest
Leaving me light, released, clean,
Relieved.
Ode to Letters
Shades of off-grey,
smeared with oily finger prints,
little squares pray
for their chance at dropping hints.
Awaiting
to do their part in words
in sentences,
in paragraphs,
in books,
in libraries,
in cities,
in countries.
They sit untouched for
time and time again
as aching fingers bypass them.
Even when thought escapes the mind
the letters slave on,
Finishing papers at 2 am,
Confessing truths in wordy emails,
Sitting stoically in declaration,
Running smoothly in poetic muse.
Tiny blots of pixels
Poised perfectly in pencil,
Engraved in indigo ink,
Scratched softly in sand.
They are
Waiting to become
Important.
Sonnet? --
I stand knee deep, a stream pulls past my feet.
The chill envelopes sensory bare toes.
The water bends around a curve to meet
Legs standing firm, unshifting as it flows.
In darkness seeing only reflections
Of distant lights unmoved but by the pool.
How like a string of ice, small collections
Of dancing stars and swimming, frozen cool.
The skin goes numb as rocks slide beneath
The little toes on little feet, again.
Cold soaks there into bones, chattering teeth
And aching flesh. The legs escape the pain.
With towels drying shivers, there is sun
On rocks, warmth in air, summer has begun.
~Emma Hohenstein.
I am very attracted to the description of sense as things that wouldn't typically be considered, such as something smelling sticky, or something tasting angry. I also often use fragments to make single moments or ideas more definite. In Ode to Letters I use this to create a growth, " in sentences, in paragraphs, in books, in libraries, in cities, in countries." Another common tool I use is to highlight small motions or moments, such as in Sonnet? -- where I continuously talk about toes to express the cold. A problem I encountered with this set or writing is my distaste for editing. I found it hard to make changes to a lot of what I had written and opted, instead, to leave it as it was.
LEWIS CARROLL
THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER HE sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might;
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky;
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand--
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A Pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach;
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said;
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat;
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low--
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing-wax --
Of cabbages -- and kings --
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need;
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?"
"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but,
"Cut us another slice.
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick.
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but,
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said;
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
LIFE IS BUT A DREAM BOAT, beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July--
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear--
Long has paled that sunny sky;
Echoes fade and memories die;
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die;
Ever drifting down the stream--
Lingering in the golden gleam--
Life, what is it but a dream?
BESSIE'S SONG TO HER DOLL ATILDA JANE, you never look
At any toy or picture-book.
I show you pretty things in vain--
You must be blind, Matilda Jane!
I ask you riddles, tell you tales,
But all our conversation fails.
You never answer me again--
I fear you're dumb, Matilda Jane!
Matilda darling, when I call,
You never seem to hear at all.
I shout with all my might and main--
But you're so deaf, Matilda Jane!
Matilda Jane, you needn't mind,
For, though you're deaf and dumb and blind,
There's some one loves you, it is plain--
And that is me, Matilda Jane!
Lewis Carroll, born Charles Dodgson, was a Victorian writer in the early 19th century. His famous story of Alice in Wonderland, and the sequel Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There were popularized by the whimsical, child-like story with almost frightening events and characters. Carroll had a sort of link to childhood throughout all of his work as displayed in his poem In the poem Bessie's Song To Her Doll. He writes from the perspective of a little girl talking her toy doll. "There's some one loves you, it is plain-- And that is me, Matilda Jane!" Carroll's 'obsession' with childhood was eminent by the work he did. Many of his poems were aimed towards or about children and in his early years he was a photographer. His main focus had been capturing children and childhood.
One particular girl, Alice Liddell, was a large focus of his photographs and later went on to be the protagonist of his most famous book. Life Is But A Dream Carroll writes about his process of writing Alice in Wonderland and how "She still haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies never seen by waking eyes". His love for everything juvinielle and fantastical is displayed in his writing, the content of which is focus greatly on children and dream-like concepts.
Along with this he had a very rhythmic and jovial way of writing. He gives a character to each poem he writes. The best display of both his whimsical style and schematic meter is in The Walrus and the Carpenter. "'The time has come,' the Walrus said, 'To talk of many things: Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing-wax -- Of cabbages -- and kings -- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings.'" The silliness he portrays and the rhythm present is typical of Carroll's works.
If the author had said "Let us put on appropriate galoshes," there could, of course, have been no poem.
~Author Unknown.
Relief
Smooth and slowly it washed over meLike soap over dirty skin, it scrubbed painlessly.
The anger peeled away from my body
And slithered, discarded, to the floor.
Air, sweet and fresh, tasting like ice water,
Cold and fresh, slipped down my throat.
Waves of newness washed out
The taste of dirt and blood.
The taste of fear.
With scents of cleanliness and revival
gusts of wind burst forth;
Winds that had trudged for
Years, pulling over ponds,
Careening through canyons,
Moving from malice.
My hands ached as they unclenched
And my fingers extended towards the ground.
An audible creak in my joints
And the floor boards
As I rock back on my heels.
I release my spine, guilelessly
Ridding my head
Of Pain.
An orb of energy seemed to rise from my chest
Leaving me light, released, clean,
Relieved.
Ode to Letters
Shades of off-grey,smeared with oily finger prints,
little squares pray
for their chance at dropping hints.
Awaiting
to do their part in words
in sentences,
in paragraphs,
in books,
in libraries,
in cities,
in countries.
They sit untouched for
time and time again
as aching fingers bypass them.
Even when thought escapes the mind
the letters slave on,
Finishing papers at 2 am,
Confessing truths in wordy emails,
Sitting stoically in declaration,
Running smoothly in poetic muse.
Tiny blots of pixels
Poised perfectly in pencil,
Engraved in indigo ink,
Scratched softly in sand.
They are
Waiting to become
Important.
Sonnet? --
I stand knee deep, a stream pulls past my feet.The chill envelopes sensory bare toes.
The water bends around a curve to meet
Legs standing firm, unshifting as it flows.
In darkness seeing only reflections
Of distant lights unmoved but by the pool.
How like a string of ice, small collections
Of dancing stars and swimming, frozen cool.
The skin goes numb as rocks slide beneath
The little toes on little feet, again.
Cold soaks there into bones, chattering teeth
And aching flesh. The legs escape the pain.
With towels drying shivers, there is sun
On rocks, warmth in air, summer has begun.
~Emma Hohenstein.
I am very attracted to the description of sense as things that wouldn't typically be considered, such as something smelling sticky, or something tasting angry. I also often use fragments to make single moments or ideas more definite. In Ode to Letters I use this to create a growth, " in sentences, in paragraphs, in books, in libraries, in cities, in countries." Another common tool I use is to highlight small motions or moments, such as in Sonnet? -- where I continuously talk about toes to express the cold. A problem I encountered with this set or writing is my distaste for editing. I found it hard to make changes to a lot of what I had written and opted, instead, to leave it as it was.
LEWIS CARROLL
THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER
Shining with all his might;
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky;
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand--
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A Pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach;
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said;
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat;
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low--
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing-wax --
Of cabbages -- and kings --
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need;
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?"
"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but,
"Cut us another slice.
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick.
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but,
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said;
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
LIFE IS BUT A DREAM
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July--
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear--
Long has paled that sunny sky;
Echoes fade and memories die;
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die;
Ever drifting down the stream--
Lingering in the golden gleam--
Life, what is it but a dream?
BESSIE'S SONG TO HER DOLL
At any toy or picture-book.
I show you pretty things in vain--
You must be blind, Matilda Jane!
I ask you riddles, tell you tales,
But all our conversation fails.
You never answer me again--
I fear you're dumb, Matilda Jane!
Matilda darling, when I call,
You never seem to hear at all.
I shout with all my might and main--
But you're so deaf, Matilda Jane!
Matilda Jane, you needn't mind,
For, though you're deaf and dumb and blind,
There's some one loves you, it is plain--
And that is me, Matilda Jane!
Lewis Carroll, born Charles Dodgson, was a Victorian writer in the early 19th century. His famous story of Alice in Wonderland, and the sequel Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There were popularized by the whimsical, child-like story with almost frightening events and characters. Carroll had a sort of link to childhood throughout all of his work as displayed in his poem In the poem Bessie's Song To Her Doll. He writes from the perspective of a little girl talking her toy doll. "There's some one loves you, it is plain-- And that is me, Matilda Jane!" Carroll's 'obsession' with childhood was eminent by the work he did. Many of his poems were aimed towards or about children and in his early years he was a photographer. His main focus had been capturing children and childhood.
One particular girl, Alice Liddell, was a large focus of his photographs and later went on to be the protagonist of his most famous book. Life Is But A Dream Carroll writes about his process of writing Alice in Wonderland and how "She still haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies never seen by waking eyes". His love for everything juvinielle and fantastical is displayed in his writing, the content of which is focus greatly on children and dream-like concepts.
Along with this he had a very rhythmic and jovial way of writing. He gives a character to each poem he writes. The best display of both his whimsical style and schematic meter is in The Walrus and the Carpenter. "'The time has come,' the Walrus said, 'To talk of many things: Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing-wax -- Of cabbages -- and kings -- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings.'" The silliness he portrays and the rhythm present is typical of Carroll's works.